


Where Gods Rise

by highflyerwings



Category: Actor RPF, Shutter Island (2010)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highflyerwings/pseuds/highflyerwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a break in shooting, the boys take a walk in the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Gods Rise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [babykid528](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babykid528/gifts).



  
“So--” Leo paused as he carefully stepped over a fallen branch, “I mean, it’s not like anyone’s gonna find out,” he continued, gesturing idly as he talked over his shoulder to the man following close behind.  
  
“They always find out,” Mark sighed, “you know that.”  He wasn’t really sure what Leo was talking about anymore, didn’t know if it was about them, or someone they knew, or simply vague ruminations of the human condition (which, knowing Leo, was the most plausible answer).  It was unusual for Mark to lose interest in what Leo had to say, but he was tired, and the cool air always distracted him.    
  
He heard Leo laugh a little--at what, he didn’t know--a quiet sound that was quickly drowned under the rustle of leaves beneath their feet.  There was a perpetual softness that hovered over each word, and Mark was always amazed at the way Leo could sound both young and impossibly wise at the same time.  He envied the desperate hold his friend had on the innocence surrounding the sometimes ruthless lifestyle they both lived, and the way he clung to the thread that separated the good from the bad.  Leo knew the line, and where to cross it, and he always found his way back.  
  
There was a two-day break in shooting, which Mark had vainly hoped would be reserved for catching up on some much-needed rest before they moved on to their next location, but was instead devoted to the roving disposition of his friend, and he found himself in a small wooded area just outside of Medfield, Massachusetts, trudging through a soft, wet clutter of fallen leaves on a foggy, mid-October morning.    
  
A fine mist hung in the air.  The trees were slowly baring themselves, and the bark--turned black from the rain--stood out stark against the grey sky.  Mark pulled his jacket tighter around him and he slipped a little on the branch Leo had just stepped over.  He wasn’t sure where they were going, he wasn’t too sure if Leo even knew where they going, but it didn’t matter.  Mark took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.  The heady must of decaying foliage, and the distant smell of someone’s fireplace clung as tightly to him as the mist in the air.  Every breath, it sank deeper and deeper until it seemed as though he’d never smell anything else ever again.  He reveled in it.  He loved it.  The crispness of autumn that made everything seem a shade darker.    
  
He took another deep breath and noticed something else.  Underneath.  A thin layer of...something different.  A lighter scent that curled through the dampness of the autumn air, and suddenly he realized what it was.  It was unmistakable.  Every once in a while he’d get close enough to the man in front of him for the light breeze to pick up his scent and send it swirling back towards Mark.  And Mark accepted it, breathed it in deeper until it settled somewhere way down inside, and he did his best to trap it there.  He willed himself to memorize the sharpness of it, the cool clearness, and the way it seemed to be an extension of the air around him.  Like Leo was made from the very leaves they walked on.  
  
A crow cawed somewhere overhead, and Mark looked up.  The canopy above them was a heavy, ragged blanket of yellow and orange that clung to the trees and shook ominously in the breeze.    
  
Ten minutes passed where Leo continued to murmur quietly, carrying on his own end of the conversation, and just when Mark was beginning to finally wonder where they were going, he saw the edge of a clearing.  Leo made a small noise of satisfaction in front of him, and stopped at the edge of the tree-line.    
  
Mark took another couple of strides and came to a stop next to him.  He looked out across the field, and the immediate sensation was of being surrounded by a great ring of fire.  The trees looked as though they were licked in flame, a vibrant mixture of reds, oranges, and yellows, dripping color against the dull grey sky.  The clearing itself wasn’t exceptionally large.  An expanse of wheat-colored grass filled the area between the wide circle of trees, and Mark could see a small wooden fence along the other side--someone’s property line, he thought.    
  
“God, it’s gorgeous out here, isn’t it?”  Leo asked.  
  
“Yeah, it is,” Mark agreed.  It really was.  He let his gaze slowly travel along the perimeter of a seemingly unused area of land, forgotten perhaps, available only to those who know where they’re looking.  A place where gods rise, and the wind speaks of something old, bone-deep and true.  
  
His gaze soon fell upon the side of his friend’s face, and he watched him for a moment, the way he stared intently across the field.  He could see him thinking, see the gears turning in his head, see the thoughts being formed and then destroyed without ever becoming aware of their own existence.  
  
“What are you thinking?”  Mark asked.  
  
Leo frowned, “...I like grass,” he said, finally.  Then he turned his head and met Mark’s questioning gaze, and his expression softened.  He smiled--one that could be construed for shy, but one that Mark knew was nothing but sincere, because that’s all this man could ever be--and then he returned his attention back to whatever he had been studying across the field.  
  
Mark watched him for a moment longer, noticed they way the mist clung to his hair and the tips of his eyelashes.  Sometimes Mark thought there was something very old inside his friend, something ancient that spoke a language only the trees or the rocks could understand.  He wanted to learn from him, to wrap himself inside the echoes of ghosts and men that lived in the corners of his mind.  Because surely if any place could be called home...  
  
He tore his attention away from Leo and looked back out across the field.  He shifted his weight just a fraction to his right and the edge of his sleeve brushed against the other man’s arm.  His breath caught in his throat, and when he felt the soft, warm brush of Leo's knuckles along the back of his hand, something tightened in his chest.  He felt as though everything wrong in the world had suddenly been righted. His fingers twitched and flexed slightly and he pressed back against the heat of Leo’s hand.  The edges of their fingers caught against one another, briefly tangling together before returning to their own space.  The moment, gone.


End file.
